


WindChijmes Fills Post

by windchijmes



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Baby Dwarves, Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Durin Family, Durin Feels, Fluff, Gen, Hair, Hair Braiding, Humor, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windchijmes/pseuds/windchijmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you have a request/prompt, please <b><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/windchijmes/profile">take a look at my Profile page for more details</a></b>. </p>
<p><b>Ch 1 - Monster Under The Bed </b>(bb!Fili, bb!Kili, Thorin, Dwalin, imaginary monsters)<br/><b>Ch 2 - A Night's Rest </b>(Fili, Kili, no incest, angst, character deaths, sleeping in Fili's bed)<br/><b>Ch 3 - Love Tokens </b>(Fili/Ori, sappiness)<br/><b>Ch 4 - Braids of Manliness </b>(Gen, humour, braids and more braids)<br/><b>Ch 5 - The Fili Effect </b>(Gen, light fluff, Fili being effortlessly charming)</p>
<p><b>Ch 6 - Fixing The Hair (Gen, hair-fixing, humour, mild sexual content)</b><br/>Post-BoFA, everybody lives. In Thorin's (and sister-sons) dressing chambers, there's a little posse of little hairdressers waiting to pop in and fix his hair between meetings. Possibly visitors from other races are very disapproving because they assume that 'getting his hair fixed' is a euphemism. Possibly it is. (When they're talking about Fili, it almost certainly is.) And the team assigned to Kili are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. ("Just one braid, please, your highness!").<br/><b>Very slight hints of Thranduil/Thorin, Tauriel/Kili, Legolas/Fili</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monster Under The Bed (bb!Fili, bb!Kili, imaginary monsters)

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=18262046#t18262046

**Monster Under The Bed**

When Mahal had given her two sons, Dis thought they were perfect. She hadn’t actually thought that they would also turn out to be part-imps, sometimes-ferrets, and mostly-rascals. _Mostly_.

She eyes her little Dwarflings now with her arms crossed and a frown upon her brows. With his golden braids neatly tucked behind his ears and his eyes the colour of summer skies, Fili looks the very picture of angelic obedience. He is turning nine this very autumn, and he is usually more well-behaved than this.

“But there _is_ , Mama,” Fili says now, eyes wide and imploring.

Dis sighs to herself.

“A munch-ster,” Kili echoes after his brother. At four years old, he is not quite speaking entirely accurately yet, though his personality is twice his wee size. He stares up at her now, cheeks still babyishly fat, but so very fierce in his stance. Hands jammed on his waist and a most defiant glare on his face. “Filis _right_.”

Well, as far as Kili is concerned, Fili is always right, Dis thinks wryly to herself. “And where is this monster?” she asks, keeping her expression straight.

“Under ow bed,” Kili cries out loud. Then, he stops and his hands fly to his mouth to stifle himself _._ He’s being too noisy.

“Shh!” Fili shushes him sternly.

All right, that’s enough with the game. Shaking her head, Dis raises her fingers. “Now, boys, I’m going to count to three. And you are to be in bed by the end of it. Or _else_ ,” she adds meaningfully. “One. _Two_.” Then she waits and pretends to take a deep breath before she actually does reach the count of three.

Like little mice, the two Dwarflings quickly scamper off, hopping onto their bed, making sure to keep their feet clear of any great, swiping claws from under the bed. Then they are burrowing under the covers, leaving only one golden head, and another dark head peeping out at the pillows.

“That’s my lads,” Dis smiles now as she hovers over them. Her darling, mischievous little Dwarflings.

“You didn’t even check,” Fili says now, very close to pouting. Sometimes, he may be the older Dwarfling, but also the more sensitive.

“Oh, there isn’t any, love,” Dis says as she leans down and kisses her elder son on the forehead. “I made sure when I swept the floors in the day.”

“That’s in the day,” Fili tells her very seriously. “It comes at _night_. It has four arms and three legs. And _one eye._ ” But he sighs and accepts the inevitable that Mama simply will not look under the bed. He wriggles down into the sheets.

“And it’s biiiiiiiig,” Kili adds, holding out his hands as wide as they can go to emphasise the sheer size of the beast.

“I’m sure, pet,” Dis laughs and brushes her lips across the wee Dwarfling’s nose. She straightens and draws the covers securely around her young sons. “Now, goodnight, my dears. And no more talk of monsters.”

The two lads watch their Mama leave the room. Their room is not entirely dark. A little lamp provides a bit of glow and warmth, though it also casts scary shadows against the walls.

“Fili…” comes a small voice in the dimness.

“Baby,” Fili scoffs, but softly, so they will not rouse the still-dozing creature under their bed.

“Not a baby!” Kili protests indignantly even as he squirms over to Fili’s waiting arms.  He makes sure he tucks himself tightly into his brother’s embrace. For good measure, he takes one of Fili’s braids and wraps it tightly around one fist.

Fili rests his cheek against Kili’s curly head. “Don’t be scared.” Mama and Papa always say they must be brave little Dwarves. They’ll fight nasty Orcs and goblins one day and everyone will be so proud of them.

“ _Not_ scared.”

Fili is about to call his brother a baby again, when the idea strikes him. “I know what we can do!” he whispers excitedly into his brother’s ear.

This time, it _will_ work.

++++++++++

“There is a _what_?”

“A monster under our bed,” the golden-haired Dwarfling says most patiently. His arms are crossed and he looks like he’s trying his level best to explain the situation to a thick-headed listener.

Now Kili crosses his arms too, and on him, the action looks even more ludicrous. The boy is all of two and a half feet high, for Mahal’s sake. “You haff to kill it,” he demands.

Thorin Oakenshield stares at his very young sister-sons. They are looking up at him, craning their necks, and they look very serious. Now, Thorin has not been around his nephews often.  Too many pressing issues in the governance of Ered Luin need his attention and time. In fact, he does not deal with baby dwarrows much, in general. They are wee things that make a lot of noise and eat too much for their own good, which doesn’t make them too different from adult Dwarves, but that’s _beside the point_.

The point is, he has been tasked to watch his nephews for the night. And now here they are, staring up beseechingly at him with these uncomfortably-big and sort-of-wobbling eyes.

“Please, Uncle,” Fili looks ready to cry. “It has sharp teeth and big ears and it growls.”

Why, that fits the description of an Orc. Now, of course, Thorin has enough experience with Dwarflings to know they sometimes conjure up monsters in their minds to scare themselves, but what if – _what if_ there is an Orc lurking about Dis’ abode? Perhaps the boys have caught glimpses of it and are terrified?

Acting swiftly, Thorin seizes his sword and nods to his sister-sons. “Lead the way, lads.”

He follows them to their room and motions them to stay at the doorway. Once he is inside, he unsheathes his sword. The blade gleams reassuringly in the dark. He moves carefully, eyes adjusting swiftly, inching along the wall until he reaches the lamps. He lights them, and the room flickers to life, casting a whole myriad of shadows around them. Smoothly, he pivots, keeping his sword poised to strike as he does so, and he searches the entire room for any sign at all of an intruder. Every nook, every cranny, and especially the space under the bed, is turned over and ploughed through, all the while with Thorin ready to slice his enemy into pieces.

Any foul creature that dares show up, and Thorin will _cut_ his head from his neck.

At the doorway, Fili and Kili watch him with rounded eyes, and mouths slack with wonder. They seem completely enchanted by the sight of their Uncle marching around their room, sword in hand, and bloody murder upon his face.

When Thorin is entirely sure there is no Orc, or any beast of similarly terrible nature, hiding in the boys’ room, Thorin sheathes his sword again with a great clang, and turns to his sister-sons. “There is no monster,” he declares, satisfied with the safety of the chamber. “Get to bed now.”

Obediently, the little lads scurry past him and climb into their bed. But they do not fall asleep at once. They are still looking at him – very expectantly so. Remembering his role as their Uncle, Thorin heads over gruffly to them and kisses them on their tousled heads.

“Sleep now,” he tells them. He turns to leave the room, but not before a high, boyish voice rings out:

“What about tomorrow night, Uncle?”

++++++++++

 _Bloody bollocks_. Sometimes, Dwalin figures that if Thorin isn’t actually his King, in addition to being his childhood playmate, he’d have clocked the damned Dwarf across his jaw many more times than he already has. Once again, he’s being put on the kind of assignment that is not life-threatening, but slowly wears your energy down to its last whit and destroys your reputation, nonetheless.

Baby-minding Fili and Kili. Those two tiny, terrible rascals.

Taking in a breath and making sure his axes are securely slung across his back and not poking out to scare the young ones, Dwalin grins down at the little figures that are now clinging onto his legs. He is just opening his mouth to suggest they go straight to bed _and stay there_ , when he is beaten to it.

“Mister Dwalin,” Kili is tugging on his breeches with small fists. “There’s a munch-ster under ow bed.”

Fili nods earnestly, braids bouncing up and down. “It’s big and it has five eyes and sharp teeth.”

“And it wants to _eat us_.”

 

_finis_

* * *

_  
_

 


	2. A Night's Rest (angst, canon character deaths)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili has this habit of sleeping in Fili's bed when Fili is away. The last time Kili sleeps in Fili's bed alone is after the Battle of the Five Armies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for this prompt : hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=9782805#t9782805

** A Night’s Rest **

The first time it happened, Fili was twelve. He had gone for lessons and he had just returned home. So he burst through the doors, greeted Mama, and out of pure reflex, looked for Kili.

His brother was nowhere to be found.

 _Maybe the larders_ , came Mama’s exasperated reply. _Or the cellars_.

Fili tried not to laugh. Disappearing into the nooks and crannies of their house was Kili’s special skill. But he had a feeling his brother wouldn’t be in any of the places Mama named. Quietly, he crept through the hallways and into the room he and Kili shared. They had their own beds now that Kili was big enough to sleep by himself.

But sure enough, Fili spotted that little lump on his bed, buried under his covers. Grinning to himself, he tiptoed up to that lump. He took a deep breath and held it to keep himself even more quiet. Then he raised his arms, intending to pounce –

“ _Auuuuggghhh!_ ” there came a wild shriek and a flurry of arms and legs and blankets attacked Fili.

Crying out in alarm, Fili tried to jump back but it was too late. He was already trapped by chubby arms and legs.

“I scared you!” Kili sounded terribly smug as he chortled into Fili’s ear. He also resembled a forest creature of sorts with his dark hair falling all around his face in ratty curls.

“No, you didn’t,” Fili retorted, trying to wriggle free and quite failing as Kili simply clung on more tightly. “Get off me, you little worm. What are you doing on my bed?”

“Sleeping,” came the unrepentant reply. “You left me alone!” With that, Kili flopped back onto the bed. There was a scowl on his little face now, so unlike his usual sunlit merriment.

“I didn’t mean to. I had lessons,” Fili rolled his eyes. When the pout remained on Kili’s lips for another long moment, he sighed. “What do you want?”

“I’m sleeping here tonight.”

And Fili let him. Later, when Kili tugged sheepishly on his sleeve, Fili grinned to himself and gathered that silly baby into his arms. Kili always slept better when he was hugged.

++++++++++

After that, it happened again and again. _And again_. Every time Fili had to leave for lessons without Kili, he would come home to find that familiar figure curled up on his bed. Messy curls all around his pillow, and a small face half-buried under his blanket. Eyes tightly shut. Definitely asleep.

Then, Kili turned ten and began attending lessons with Fili too. So, the sneaky sleeping in Fili’s bed began to fade. They would cram their mouths full of Mama’s breakfast in the mornings and scamper off for lessons together. And after they returned, they would gobble what they could of dinner and supper and chatter excitedly about everything they learnt before Mama’s footsteps approached their door. Then they would swiftly dive under their separate beds and pretend to sleep. Sometimes, Fili thought Mama was also pretending to believe they really were asleep, but she simply kissed them on their foreheads, whispered _good night_ , and left the room again.

Yet, after Fili began weapons training first, the old habit that they both thought Kili had kicked returned in full force.

Fili stared at his bed wryly. A whole day of weapons training had left him completely knackered and all he wanted to do was collapse onto his bed. Except he couldn’t because Kili was sprawled all over it. The younger Dwarfling was growing rapidly and his limbs were almost as long as Fili’s already. With his arms and legs flung messily across the sheets, he looked like he owned the bed, never mind it actually belonged to Fili.

“Kili,” he headed over and prodded his brother on his idiotic head.

“’oaway…am…schweepin…” Kili mumbled, burrowing even deeper into the sheets.

Fili wondered how it was possible for a fifteen year-old to look all of five years of age. “It’s _my_ bed, you buffoon.”

By way of reply, Kili rolled over, leaving a tiny space to his side. Muttering to himself, Fili shoved his brother over again, and squeezed into his own bed. He managed to – just barely – but he was too exhaustion to put up much of a fight.

When Kili flopped back again and his arms landed across Fili’s face and chest, the fair-haired stripling was already fast asleep.

++++++++++

Then one night, Fili did not return home.

It had become almost a game between them. They took training sessions and lessons separately now, under different masters. If Kili reached home earlier, he would behold Fili’s bed with a sort of unholy glee and tumble onto it. Sometimes he wondered if it was a matter of material, because Fili’s bed just _felt_ more comfortable than his own. Or perhaps, and Kili didn’t think that was something he was going to ever admit to his smug brother, he just felt _safer_ surrounded by everything that belonged to Fili.

Because that was how it was since he could remember. Wherever he turned, there was Fili. If he said something ridiculous, Fili was the first to laugh at him. If there was a prank that simply must be played on any of their esteemed Dwarven elders, Fili would never let him carry it out alone, even if Fili’s punishment was almost always twice as severe. When he hurt himself, Fili would shred him with a reprimanding harsher than anyone else’s, before taking care of the wound himself.

That night, as usual, he reached home before Fili and fell into slumber on his brother’s bed. He awoke again deep into the night, with a sudden, sharp start. It was a similar feeling to the too-abrupt awakening from a nightmare. Heart still pounding and queasiness churning in his belly. 

Fili wasn’t home yet – and something was wrong.

He crept out into the hallway and saw the lamp-light from the parlour. He heard low, urgent voices. Mama’s strained, quivering tones. Uncle Thorin’s deep rumble comforting her. Fili was hurt in training, that much Kili could make out, and he would stay with the healers for that night.

That moment, Kili thought he fell sick a little. Not the cold or fever that sometimes wracked his body. More of _fear_ – the kind that devoured him from inside out. He turned away from the hallway and returned to Fili’s bed.

He laid his head on Fili’s pillow and stared at the ceiling. He counted the patterns in his mind. It was a trick Fili taught him when they were much littler, to get him to stop whining for more bedtime stories than Fili was willing to tell.

He didn’t know how long he took to complete his count. Vaguely, he felt the sky begin to lighten outside. He was so intent on his task, he didn’t hear the footfalls outside the room until the door pushed open and a weary voice croaked:

“I might have known you’d steal my bed again.”

Without thinking or even realising what he was doing, Kili was out of the bed and his arms wound tightly around Fili’s neck. He mumbled _sorry_ when he heard the gasp of pain from his brother. Then he finally saw the injuries. Fili’s whole arm was bandaged and there were gashes at his cheek and hands.

 _Fell off the pony_ , Fili tried to laugh and didn’t quite succeed.

 _Get yourself to bed and stop talking_ , Kili heard himself say, and for once, Fili obeyed with neither exasperation nor objection. Kili removed his brother’s boots when he couldn’t do it properly, glared Fili down when he wanted to draw the covers himself one-armed. Then, he fetched breakfast, adjusted the loosening bandages, and made sure Fili was all right – _alive and well_ – before he collapsed onto the bed next to him. 

For the first time in Kili’s life, he looked at Fili and saw the possibility of death. That night, they were both quiet and Kili’s hands shook for a long time even after Fili had fallen into slumber.

++++++++++

There is no stealing Fili’s bed now. Fili’s fast asleep and there is no budging him. His brother’s chosen a good spot, even Kili has to admit. It is right under the skylight that now lets in a faint, soothing wash of sunlight. How fitting for the golden Dwarf of Erebor. And it’s near their Uncle too, who hasn’t stirred since Kili entered the chamber.

It is growing dark around him; he knows the sun will soon set.

Wryly, Kili stares at the bed. From their birth place of Ered Luin to the harsh landscapes of their quest, and finally, the blood-ridden land of reclaimed Erebor – he’s  always managed to beat Fili to his own bed. It’s the kind of game that Fili can never be good at because Fili lets him win.

Until now.

He lays a hand on the bed. The space isn’t much but he thinks he can squeeze himself in there. Fili won’t mind, he supposes. Carefully, he eases himself onto the bed and stares upwards. There is no ceiling pattern now but he likes the skylight a little better. It’s warm and takes away the growing cold.

“You win,” he concedes to Fili. This time, Fili’s reached his own bed first and fallen asleep before Kili.

The chamber grows dim. Sleep calls to him at the edges of his mind and Kili sighs. He cannot remember the last time he truly slept. So many hours of hacking blades and ruined flesh.

He closes his eyes and he thinks he hears Fili chuckling softly and calling him an idiot like he always does. _Next time, I’m winning again_ , Kili tells his smug bastard of a brother.

Fili’s laugh is clear and bright and free of tears.

Kili grins too.

And they sleep.

++++++++++

He shakes the healer so hard his teeth rattle. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

“We looked in upon him in the afternoon and he was gone,” the healer gasps, eyes widened.

He knows how he must look with smatters of dried blood coating his skin, and the frenetic rage on his face. But he has no time for unwitting fools now. Wildly, he tosses the healer aside and glares around him. The surroundings are a chaos of makeshift shelters and scurrying figures. The maimed and injured form a continuous groaning, bloodied line from battlegrounds to healers’ tents. So many of their folk remain lost and displaced.

It’s ended. The quest and great battle are both finally ended, but the pain refuses to stop.

And now the lad – their remaining lad – is missing.

 _No_. He’s failed twice already. There will not be a third time.

Forcing down the tide of fear, he grips his axe more tightly and makes ready to plough through the entire Mountain, if it means he finds the boy unharmed. Less harmed than he already is, his mind corrects grimly.

The hand on his arm stops him. “Dwalin.”

He tries to throw off that hand, but it simply grasps him more securely. “ _Dwalin_. Listen to me, brother.”

He can hardly hear through the pounding in his ears. Somehow Balin’s voice finds him through the fog, and he halts. “Kili – ” he hears himself say. The words choke in his throat. “I don’t know where he – ”

Balin’s face is a muddied blur of grief. “There is nowhere else he’ll be, Dwalin.”

He knows Balin’s right, and that knowledge pains him more than any flesh wound. Wrenching free from his brother’s hand, Dwalin begins to move, his strides measured, not stopping until he throws the doors wide open and he is right inside the chamber he’s refused to step into since the end of the battle. There are ghosts in here, of those dearest to them.

His eyes cannot quite see for a long moment. Or they may have chosen not to see. Not until he senses Balin approaching and standing beside him.

“Never could keep them apart,” Balin says, and he sounds so terribly old and tired.

Fili’s tomb is barely lit under the skylight. There is just enough light for them to make out Kili’s broken form curled upon the stone. His head is turned towards the skylight, and upon his face – _peace_.

Dwalin stands staring for long moments, feeling almost like he’s intruding. He’s getting old too. His eyes ache in a way they haven’t in years.

“Let him rest for the night,” he says at length, turning away. “Then we get him his own bed.”

They leave the crypt.

As the sun begins to fade, the last ray of light slips into the quietness, casting its golden touch over the sleeping face, before stealing away.

 

_finis_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the prompt, I really do. But personally I can't deal with too much death angst, even in writing. This is mostly what I can manage, readers! ;_;


	3. Love Tokens (Fili/Ori, sappiness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Fili and Ori start courting, Fili gives Ori his moustache beads and Ori gives Fili his ribbons. Over time, more and more tokens are exchanged between them. Perhaps it's love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for this prompt : http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=18692126#t18692126

** Love Tokens **

That golden head standing out like a flame. Few Dwarves have hair of that colour. It is both blessing and bane. It is like _gold_ , that which Dwarves covet above all else, and also, the invitation that drew evil to their once-kingdom. Fili is aware, naturally. He is far more perceptive than he lets on. He knows when he is watched, and the intentions of those who do it. There is always a certain gravity behind his merry gaze, if one should pay attention.

That Ori does quite well. He pays attention with his eyes, his ears, his mind, and everything else that matters. He has memorised the cadence of Fili’s laugh, the tilt of his head when he is listening to your every word, his deftness with his twin swords, even the way his face darkens in rare moments of true anger.

Ori can remember, with all the clarity and delight as though it just happened yesterday, the awkward shuffle that Fili did just before he thrust out his hand and deposited something onto Ori’s palm.

“There you go,” Fili had said, looking straight into his eyes, and not _really_ looking, you know? The tips of his ears were beginning to flush red.

Ori had stared stupidly down at the ornamental beads on his palm. They were Fili’s; his insignia was etched in intricate patterns all around the metal. And, oh in the name of Mahal’s beard, the meaning was startlingly clear behind the gesture. It was a _courting_ token – Fili meant to court him – why on earth would Fili even want to – Fili said _there you go_ like he was discussing the weather – Fili blushed even more than _he_ did –

All of those thoughts flitted right through Ori’s mind in a demented dance.

There you go.

Alternately giggling like a lass and sputtering apologies, Ori began patting himself down for something – _anything_ to reciprocate the gesture. He could be terribly buffoonish but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t need to _be courted_ when what he wanted was standing right there. Let it be said that Ori could court as well.

“Your – ” Fili grinned. He made a deliberately-casual gesture towards the ties that cinched around Ori’s braids. “Your ribbons. They’ll do.”

 _They’ll do_. Ori had a completely inappropriate and random thought about instructing Fili on the finer arts of courting speech; there were many books for those. But then all scholarly thoughts were abandoned as he fairly _ripped_ free his hair ties (not ribbons, mind, he would make a point of that later). He hovered anxiously.

“May I – your hair – ” Ori stammered most eloquently. Fili wasn’t the only one who needed instruction, apparently.

“Oh. Of course,” Fili nodded, still grinning, still radiating nervous energy that belied that same grin. He reached into his hair and tugged out a golden braid.

Ori took more time than really needed to weave his ribbon into Fili’s hair. By the time he was done, they were both fidgeting on their feet and Ori was sure his smile looked as foolish as it _felt_ on his face. Then, Fili leaned forward and told him _I like it_ so quietly and so seriously, Ori had to force himself not to burst into spontaneous song right there.

Other tokens followed over the year.

A pair of Ori’s mittens appeared on Fili’s hands in the fall.

Braid clasps joined the rest of the metal beads that Ori wore around his neck.

Interwoven locks of brown and golden hair travelled in their pockets.

Careless, delirious kisses warmed the air in puffs between them during winter.

And _this_.

Fili is lying on his side, his face half hidden under his hair. What visible part of his cheek is creased in a sweet dimple. “I know you like to write.”

Ori begins to demur out of pure reflex. “No, no, not really. I’m just a records-keeper for – ”

“A scribe,” Fili corrects him firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “You must not take credit and praise away from yourself.”

His vision is beginning to blur and he is quite unable to tear his eyes away from the leather-bound book. He knows from a touch that the parchment is the finest in Ered Luin, the embroidery is of real gold and the tooling is crafted by a master’s hand. Thought and care and no small amount of affection have gone into this gift, and those are by far, more precious than all the gold the mountains have to offer.

“But what shall I get you, then?” Ori complains now, a little too loudly, hoping it may distract Fili from the tremble in his voice. Or the way he has to swipe the back of his hand across his eyes to get rid of those traitorous tears.

“Lots of naked frolicking in public baths,” Fili says with a straight face, ducking his head with a laugh as he is roundly smacked upside the head for his efforts. But his arms open readily and his chest is so warm as Ori curls into him.

“I’ll write about you,” Ori promises, pressing his lips into that dimple winking at him again. He _feels_ Fili smile against his forehead.

After that night, another round of tokens pass between them.

Fili gets him a slingshot for a lark, and stops chortling only when Ori proves he is deadly accurate with it.

Ori clothes Fili in a full set of attire in mauve tones to match the increasing number of braids on his head. _Pretty golden prince_ , he says too for good measure, knowing it makes Fili frown in a most endearing manner.

They exchange kisses more frequently now, making a note to do it in front of Kili when that little bastard makes gagging noises.

And he writes about Fili. He translates every memory from mind to parchment. Words they whisper into each other’s ears and others left unsaid, the taste of himself in Fili’s mouth, the way his own name sounds on Fili’s lips, building something together that is sweet and pure and so – _so_ fragile in this world.

Sometimes Ori thinks it’s love. He doesn’t say it out loud but he thinks Fili feels the same. There will be a time when he writes _love_ in his book and makes it real. But until then, there is solace in these tokens.

 

_finis_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fic in MONTHS. I'm trying to ease myself back into writing again after a long break. Thought I'll start with something sweet and mild. The Fili/Ori pairing is new to me, and so are its dynamics. I hope fans of this pairing are satisfied with this fic! ^^


	4. Braids of Manliness (Gen, humour, braids)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwarves think braids are manly and very serious. Bilbo disagrees. He thinks they are "cute" and that it's great that such hardened warriors are in touch with their feminine side. To add insult to injury, Bilbo thinks it's hilarious that they actually braid each other's hair like gossiping girls. The Dwarves are not amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for this prompt : http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=20133645#t20133645

** Braids of Manliness **

Bilbo Baggins wakes up to a _sight_.

The Dwarves, _Company of Thorin Oakenshield_ , are fixing their hair.

Bilbo thought he’d seen it all. But this – good gracious – _this_ is something else.

Dori is seated quite primly on a rock, while his brothers fuss over his too-intricate, too-complicated, too-everything hair. Ori is weaving those braids, and Nori is simultaneously instructing him and sporting a rather perturbing gleam in his eyes as though he is contemplating if the theft of one or two clasps will make a difference to Dori’s head.

Oin and Gloin are doing each other’s hair with such familiarity and such expertise Bilbo has to wonder about their alternate occupations. Are they secretly _hairdressers_? Scandalous.

And the boys – oh how _precious_. Kili is chewing on his lip in concentration as he weaves the moustache braids of a barely-awake Fili. The golden Dwarf will even tilt his head this way and that so that Kili may get the angle right.

To top it off, the all-powerful Dwarves Thorin and Dwalin – who can put an end to all masculine Dwarves with their sheer masculinity should they put their collective brawniness to it – are now engaged in a strange ritual. Taking a handful of Thorin’s dark locks, the warrior Dwarf runs an ornate comb through it once, twice, _thrice_. There is something almost reverent in the manner that Dwalin does it, and Bilbo is touched by the heartwarming sight.

This is all so – so –

He wracks his mind for the appropriate term.

“Dwarven custom,” Bofur’s voice interrupts his reverie. The merry Dwarf comes up next to Bilbo, his hat perched jauntily upon his head. There is a twinkle in his eyes. “I know that look on your face. You think this is all very peculiar.”

“Oh no, no,” Bilbo waves his hand dismissively. “Naturally it’s a bit unexpected, but really I think this is very – _very_ – ”

“Bilbo – ” Bofur’s tone raises in late warning.

“ _Adorable_ ,” Bilbo’s declaration pierces the air like a chime.

Fairly like magic, all activity in the clearing comes to a sudden halt.

Bilbo finds himself the subject of intense scrutiny from thirteen Dwarves, and an _oh-bollocks_ roll of the eyes from the Wizard.

Releasing Thorin’s hair and turning his massive bulk towards Bilbo, Dwalin just _look_ s at him. “What did you say?”

He should explain – he _must_ explain. “Well I mean no offense, of course,” Bilbo clarifies helpfully. He gestures to the Dwarves, specifically their braids. “I just find all of this very charming and very – well – sweet, really.”

“Sweet?” Gloin is starting to bristle in an alarming manner. “This is a serious undertaking, not one for jokes and frivolity! Braids prove a warrior’s worth and manliness!”

It must be the way Gloin says it – growling and snarling and his newly-groomed hair fanning about his shoulders like an enraged curtain. Bilbo hears himself chuckle.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he agrees, nodding his head eagerly, not noticing the rather pained expression on Bofur’s face.

“Bilbo, just stop for a – ” is all that Bofur manages before he is cut off yet again.

“I’ve seen this before!” Bilbo forges on, determined to explain that though Dwarves and Hobbits do not cross paths often, there are similarities in their traditions that bear a closer examination. “The maidens in the Shire braid each other’s hair all the time. They seem to enjoy it too – not that I’ll ever understand why. Must be all the gossiping and chattering they do at the same time. But really, I think it’s _wonderful_ Dwarves are so acquainted with their tender sides.”

There is pin-drop silence for a brief moment. Then –

“ _Did he just compare us to lasses?_ ” Dwalin bellows, and finally, Bilbo Baggins realises the danger he is in.

“What? No!” Bilbo protests valiantly, backing away from the menacing Dwarven mass advancing upon him. “No, no, I mean, _yes_ , I did reference our womenfolk in the Shire, but I’m just saying that you – them – this – ” he wrings his hands a little helplessly.

Thorin Oakenshield stands before him, a towering dark figure with his hair already majestically set by his warrior. His face is unreadable.

“So you think we are _adorable_ ,” Thorin says the last word with the air of someone who’s just drank piss.

“I – ” Bilbo begins. “Hmph,” he finishes weakly. Right now Dwarves are the least adorable creatures in the whole of Middle Earth and he wishes for the umpteenth time he’s back in Bag End tending to his garden and _not seeing braids ever again in his life_.

“Very well,” Thorin replies mildly.

Eh? Bilbo looks up, hopeful. Perchance he won’t be slaughtered by axe-wielding braided monsters?

“Fili, Kili,” Thorin continues as he goes to his pony. “Do as you wish.”

The lads’ faces lit up with _such_ glee.

Well. Fuck, really.

++++++++++

He is keeping count.

“Oh, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf is saying as he turns around to peer at him. “Cheer up now, we – ” his kindly advice ends in a chortle.

That is the _fourth_ time Gandalf’s dissolved into _giggles_ , Bilbo’s mind points out vindictively. The _good_ Wizard, laughing at a Hobbit! It’s not even fair.

“Honest, Bilbo,” Bofur takes up the duty to remind Bilbo of his misfortune. “I warned you. Now you look a little foolish.”

“You’re my friend, Bofur,” Bilbo tells him seriously. “But right this moment, I don’t like you very much.”

Bilbo stares dolefully at his reflection in the stream they are travelling by. Every hair on his head has been twisted into braids. Thick ones, thin ones, compulsively neat ones, startlingly messy ones. Fili and Kili have not spared a single curl on his head in their vengeance. And Thorin has made it clear that he is to keep his braids until they arrive at their next tavern, which is likely two days away.

“It’s sweet,” Bofur finishes with an amused wink. “Very adorable.”

 

_finis_

* * *

_  
_  



	5. The Fili Effect (Gen, light stuff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company find an inn at one point but have very little money for food or a room. They discuss how they should get what they want - Nori stealing a few coin purses? Dwalin intimidating the owners? Thorin telling them who he is and promising repayment? But Fili swaggers on over, talks to the inn-keepers and bam, couple of rooms for the night, dinner provided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=21219583#t21219583

** The Fili Effect   **

“Are you quite done with your discussion?” Gandalf’s voice floats over to them, sounding like he always does when his patience runs thin. Cantankerous.

Naturally, not a single member of the Company of Dwarves and Hobbit says that out loud. Gandalf’s temper when truly provoked is a form of destruction that no one quite knows how to placate.

The discussion continues, more heatedly now. And finally, someone has to say something – and that someone is Kili, but of course.

“But Gandalf,” Kili protests, popping up from his crouch, then huffily dragged down again by his brother. “All you have to do is spirit us into the inn.”

The Wizard turns his head and stares meaningfully at the young Dwarf. “And how do you propose I do that?”

“With your staff, of course!” Kili snorts, and this time, he gets a hard smack across his head from Fili.

“Would you pipe down, you oaf!” Fili hisses. The last time Kili announced his opinion about the path that Gandalf had chosen through the thickest, most gnarly woods the Dwarves had ever encountered, the Wizard looked ready to turn the lad into a Dwarven toad.

Gandalf chuckles benignly, his gaze gleaming. “Perhaps I can transform you into a creature small enough to ride in someone’s pocket?”

That was the end of the debate, for Fili has already shoved his brother back into the Company discussion.

There is, in actuality, only one point of contention. In the near distance, there is an inn. The Company plans to get into inn. Pay for lodging. Eat their fills of dinner. Get out of inn the next day. That is the plan, except they are stalled at the payment part. Their money is already running dangerously low, and they cannot afford a single night’s worth of rest and food. Who knows what other dangers they would run into that they would need to bribe their way out of?

Hence this tiresome discussion about the possible solutions to their problem.

Balin takes the role of advisor now, considering each suggestion as it surfaces, and snuffing it out if it makes little sense.

“I can steal a few coin purses,” Nori suggests, his fingers twitching eagerly. In fact, his whole body is thrumming like he cannot wait to have a go at them coin purses.

“We won’t be spending the night in the inn, then,” Balin retorts. “We’ll be in someone’s cells, locked up for many nights. The risk is too great and we would draw far too much attention.”

Thorin bristles, looking very serious. “I would swear repayment, after we have reclaimed Erebor.”

There is a sigh from the elderly Dwarf. “Erebor is months away from us, and I cannot guarantee that we would even be able to find our way back to this inn. And – ” he finishes dryly. “I don’t think these people know what Erebor is. Now, _don’t flare up_ , Thorin, please.”

“ _Then_ ,” Dwalin speaks up now, his voice a heavy bellow. “ _I will march in there and mow down_ – ”

“No,” Balin barks.

“We should just go in there and _ask_.”

The Dwarves pause in the midst of their arguing and turn to look at the Hobbit.

“Politely, of course,” Bilbo explains matter-of-factly.

“Fantastic idea, Bilbo!” Kili adds, looking more and more excited by the moment.

Bilbo looks pleased with himself. “Well, I’ll get going then and get us some nice rooms – ”

“You won’t do,” Kili dismisses him with a casual wave of one hand. “It has to be Fili.” The other Dwarves are beginning to agree as well, nodding their heads at Fili, who does _not_ look impressed by the group decision.

“What – why?” Bilbo protests. He considers himself to be quite the gentleman, thank you very much.

“Because you’re not Fili,” Kili explains most helpfully.

The Dwarves and Hobbit turn to Balin for the final verdict.

The venerable Dwarf holds up his hands. “Fili, it is.”

Now the whole Company, including Wizard, advance towards the inn. They hover a short and respectful distance away, while Fili completes his mission.

Thorin calls it such, though Bilbo secretly thinks it’s a little ridiculous. It’s just going up to the inn-keepers and requesting that they put up with fourteen people of various races for one night. What’s so arduous about that? Bilbo fancies he can do it blind.

“Stop sulking,” Bofur whispers to him, sounding too amused for his own good.

“I am _not_ ,” the Hobbit retorts. “I just think all of you are taking this far too seriously. I may have signed the contract as a Burglar, but I can very much be the Requestor as well.”

“For gentler folk, quite probably so,” Bofur assures him. “But not these people.”

For the first time, Bilbo takes a good, proper look at the inn-keepers who are seated like two massive statues in a little sheltered structure right outside their inn. They are a man and a woman, large and surly. There is nary a hint of good humour on their faces, and the hardness in their gazes makes it clear they have had their fair share of rough customers, and they are every bit as good as dishing out their own brand of violence to those troublemakers. So yes, Bofur may be right, but Bilbo still does not understand why the Company’s golden Dwarf is the only one fit to resolve this problem.

Fili’s approach is steady and measured, with that little swagger to his gait that most annoyed Bilbo the first time they met. But as he nears the inn-keepers, Fili’s stance visibly softens. He holds his hands out to indicate his harmlessness, and the sweetest smile lifts his lips.

That is _not_ Fili, Bilbo thinks dumbly to himself.

“I’m the best with Elves,” Kili tells him with a cocky grin. “But Fili’s better with – everybody else,” he concedes with a shrug.

For the next few minutes, Bilbo is bowled over by the sight of Fili winning over – seducing? – the inn-keepers with carefully chosen words spoken in a lilting tone, looking up charmingly at them from under his eyelashes like a blushing maiden, and oh for the love of Bungo, _he has dimples in his cheeks when he laughs in that manner_. Bilbo’s never noticed before and he is astonished. What is even more unbelievable is how the inn-keepers’ barbed expressions begin to gentle. They raise their eyebrows at Fili, and sigh in exasperation. Then, slowly, they begin to smile, and the woman actually laughs outright at something Fili tells her with a wink.

It’s surreal.

But when Bilbo looks around at the rest of the Dwarves, they seem nonchalant, bored even.

“He’s been doing this since we were striplings,” Ori tells him, rolling his eyes in a manner that suggests that he’s been taken in no few times by Fili’s powers of persuasion.

Bilbo just shakes his head in disbelief. “Aren’t any of you even worried that he’d come to harm? He’s not dallying with sunshine and rainbows, as you can see! What if they try to – to – _molest_ him?”

Several of the others burst into sniggers at Bilbo’s choice of words, and Thorin glares at him like he’s speaking in a foreign tongue. “If they touch him, he’ll take their hands off and feed them to the pigs.” There is gruff pride in his tone.

The Hobbit stares at his companions and re-thinks his decision to join these potential murderers. He’s so caught up with his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice that Fili has returned to the group until the Dwarf speaks.

“It’s done,” the golden lad says levelly, his expression composed. The coy façade has been discarded like the water off a duck’s back. “They’ll spare us three rooms for the night, so it’ll be a squeeze. But dinner is provided without cost.”

The Dwarves break into cheers and begin clapping Fili on his back in approval. One or two reach out their hands to tousle his golden head, which he smacks away unceremoniously. _Next time, I’m getting paid_ , he grouses without any real bite to his tone.

Just like that, they have rooms in an inn and free dinner for a night. Bilbo doesn’t even understand how it all works out so well.

“Do not think too deeply into this, Bilbo,” Gandalf chuckles as he guides the Hobbit into the inn with one arm around his shoulders. “The Dwarves work in their own mysterious ways. And what you have just seen, is what they call the Fili Effect.”

 

_finis_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something really light and stress-free, eheheh, while I crack my mind over longer stuff. =_= It's a cute prompt too, very slice-of-life.


	6. Fixing The Hair (Gen, hair fixing, humour)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-BoFA, everybody lives. In Thorin's (and sister-sons) dressing chambers, there's a little posse of little hairdressers waiting to pop in and fix his hair between meetings. Possibly visitors from other races are very disapproving because they assume that 'getting his hair fixed' is a euphemism. Possibly it is. (When they're talking about Fili, it almost certainly is.) And the team assigned to Kili are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. ("Just one braid, please, your highness!").  
>  **Very slight hints of Thranduil/Thorin, Tauriel/Kili, Legolas/Fili**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21872619#t21872619

** Fixing The Hair **

It is an odd sight in the Inner Hall of Erebor.

Rows of tall, willowy figures parked in neat rows before the thrones. They are dressed in fine form – long flowing robes that complement their cascading hair. There is an elegance to the architecture of their forms that defy common understanding.

And perhaps that is why the Elves simply do not understand why they have arrived only to behold three vacant thrones. They comprehend even less of the explanation they are given:

“They are getting their hair fixed.”

At the head of the Elven entourage, the Elvenking’s gaze flicks down to the red-faced Dwarf before him. The recently appointed the Court scribe. Once a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Thranduil’s eyes are ice-blue embers in his face and they spare the young one little mercy as he appraises him.

“Their _hair_?” Thranduil intones.

“Y-Yes,” Ori replies, hands clasping and unclasping before him. “It’s an – an interlude!” he blurts in a rush, as though he’s finally stumbled upon a rational explanation for this mysterious situation. “They must be made to look presentable before esteemed guests,” he finishes hopefully.

An interlude. So the rumour is true, then. The envoys from rebuilt Laketown had paid visits to Erebor in recent times, and returned delighted with new trade arrangements, but also complaining of the ruling Dwarves needing private time to put themselves back – ah – _in order_. That was how the story went. How perfectly preposterous. The Dwarves are the race of metal and fire, not frivolous frippery. This interlude may well be an excuse for _other_ activities.

Before Thranduil may speak a further word, another voice beats him to it.

“What trickery is that?” the words are uttered in a youthful, yet harsh male timbre. Another figure advances upon Ori. Like his father, Legolas is silver-haired and sapphire-eyed, but there their similarities end. His cuontenance flares with impetuous temper. “They have kept us waiting since we arrived. Lead them out now,” he _commands_ Ori.

“But their – _hair_. They are indisposed now!” Ori sputters, making less and less sense with each passing moment.

Legolas looks as if he would argue, but fades into glowering silence when Thranduil raises a hand in placid warning. Behind Legolas, the she-Elf Tauriel shakes her head and places a hand upon his arm to gentle his annoyance. Although the Elves and Dwarves have reached a truce after the great war, that is not to say they have become bosom brothers overnight.

Ahead, Thranduil tilts in his head in rapt thought. He seems to be calculating all possibilities and solutions in the time it takes to blink. At length, he nods to Ori. “If your masters are not at liberty to meet us at this moment, then we shall proceed as necessary.”

Ori finds out there and then what proceeding as necessary actually entails. His mouth opens and closes like a gawking fish as the entire Elven entourage begins to glide into the inner sanctum of the Dwarven halls. The other Dwarves bristle and growl, but they cannot actually lay hands upon the Elves without their King’s orders. And neither King, nor the King’s sister-sons are present to command them.

“Do not sink into madness, Oli. We shall be courteous,” Thranduil’s silken voice floats through the air.

“It’s _Ori_!” the young Dwarf squawks just before the Elves disappear from sight.

++++++++++

In his graciousness, Thranduil has decided that his own self, his son Legolas and the head of his Elven Guard Tauriel, would do the honours of personally calling upon Thorin and his little imps. _Sister-sons_ , Thranduil corrects his own mind. Sometimes it is difficult to see the scampering young Dwarves and not equate them with tiny woodland creatures.

He eyes the stone door that leads to Thorin’s dressing chamber. There is a pass word, naturally, but not one that is particularly meandering since it is a chamber of brief rest. Just before he breaches this non-barrier, Thranduil wonders momentarily just what state the King Under The Mountain would be in. He has few, but vivid, recollections of a fiery, wild-eyed Dwarf stout in bearing and intense in expression.

Bearing those images in mind, Thranduil whispers the pass word and pushes the door open. Slightly belatedly, he also raises his voice and announces his entrance:

“I seek audience with you, Thorin.”

_Oh._

Thorin stands before him, wearing only his breeches and a thunderous scowl on his brow. Without the decency of clothes, his torso is an astonishing sculpture of ridged muscles and dustings of hair. His shoulders are wide and powerful, losing none of their masculinity even with the tresses of dark hair falling about them.

And around Thorin hovers what looks like a small army of servant Dwarves. They preen and primp their great King, running elaborate combs through his precious hair, holding garments of different shades up to his frame before deciding on the royal-blue outfit. They do not even look at Thranduil, so absorbed in their task they are.

“ _You_ ,” Thorin’s head jerks as he starts towards Thranduil.

Not even the faintest ripple disturbs Thranduil’s languid expression, though his glance drifts just once towards Thorin’s breeches.

On either side of Thorin, the busy Dwarves tut under their breaths as yet again Thorin’s unexpected motion has created blasted knots in his hair.

“I’m busy,” Thorin snarls.

A slow, sharp smile lifts Thranduil’s lips. “And I am infinitely patient.”

++++++++++

Not even pass word locked.

Tauriel sighs to herself as she pushes the door open to Kili’s dressing chamber. She makes a mental note to warn the young Dwarf of being more vigilant about his own safety. His penchant for getting himself into trouble is reaching alarming regularity.

The door swings open and chaos descends upon her.

There is a yowl, a flurry of movement, and Tauriel reacts just in time to stretch her arms out as a pile of thrashing limbs falls onto them. How apt a greeting, she thinks wryly to herself as she eyes her armful of Dwarf. Haphazardly-dressed, and his hair hanging in terrible tatters, Kili blinks up at her in mild surprise.

“Why, hello,” the Dwarf tosses out, taking a heartbeat to realise that yes, he is cradled like a damsel in Tauriel’s arms, and no, he doesn’t care. Unperturbed, he flashes her a wink, then wriggles off to land on his feet. “Goodbye now!”

As Kili scurries off, Tauriel finally notices the train of flustered servants stumbling after their young master in a mad circle around the chamber.

“Please, Your Highness!” one of them implores.

“Just. One. Braid!” another begs.

“Catch me first!” Kili cackles.

Tauriel exits the chamber, adding another point to her growing list of mental notes: _must teach Kili how to braid his hair._

++++++++++

Why must he do this? To what purpose is he doing this?

He was simmering in irritation before, and now Legolas is fuming as he stalks towards the Dwarf’s chamber. He cannot even remember the Dwarf’s name – Fi-something – but he is given the task to greet him personally in his dressing chamber.

As he approaches, he sees the door, works out the pass word in the next heartbeat, bites it out as he reaches the door ( _Enter And Come_ – what ridiculous pass word is that?), then throws it wide open as he strides inside.

“Whoever you are,” Legolas snaps as he marches towards the elaborate lounge settee in the centre of the chamber. “Get yourself ready – and – ”

The rest of Legolas’ rant wilts and dies in his throat.

The Fi-whatshisname Dwarf is reclining upon the lounge settee, his head arched back over its low arm-rest. His hair, a rich gold in colour, falls in rivers from his head, gleaming as it is brushed and braided expertly by a servant.

But that is not the issue.

The _issue_ is the breeches bunched around the Dwarf’s knees and what looks suspiciously – _definitely_ – like another Dwarf head buried between Fi-whatonearth’s thighs, bobbing up and in a most unholy manner.

The golden Dwarf turns his head towards Legolas and the Elf sees his flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. His lips are parted in soft moans, and they curl into a teasing smirk as he takes in Legolas’ gaping stare. “I’m Fili,” he says in what sounds like a playful invitation. “Join me?”

Furious _and_ flustered, Legolas spins on his heels and strides back from where he came, slamming the door behind him.

++++++++++

In the Inner Hall of Erebor, another three rows of tall beings now fidget in impatience.

“What did you say they were doing?” King Bard of newly-restored Dale questions as he begins to pace the stone floors. Keeping still isn’t something he will ever get used to.

The young Dwarven scribe seems to be in a most sullen mood. His lips purse as he crosses his arms. “I won’t repeat it. Please just wait here. _And_ ,” he adds as an indignant afterthought, “My name is Ori.”

“I know that,” Bard says, mildly peeved. The moods of Dwarves are mercurial, indeed. It does not help either that the Elves have gotten here before them, and they will take hours to get to the crux of their discussion.

So it is to the Men’s utmost surprise when the sounds of clipped footfalls resound from the inner paths, and the Elves emerge soon afterward.

Bard is just going to say his greetings when Thranduil sweeps by him. The Elvenking seems serene as always, but there is a glint of dark amusement in his eyes that disappears as swiftly as it had surfaced.

“Another day, perhaps, King Bard,” Thranduil tells him in passing. “Our Dwarf King is busy.”

“With what?” Bard huffs. He has travelled all the way here from Dale with his family in tow. Surely that would count for something?

Now it is Tauriel who passes him by, looking sternly disapproving as if she is engaged in a mental debate.

Lastly Legolas, the skin on his face paler than usual, except his cheeks, which are red as a beetroot. “Fixing their – _hair_ ,” he barks, storming away.

And such is the manner that the Elves leave the mountain, leaving behind a most flummoxed group of Men staring after them.

 

 

_finis_

* * *

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very drawn to hair prompts, I realise! LOL. And uh, nymphomaniac Fili.


End file.
